CHAPTER 3
Judge jerks to his feet on the rug, nose pointing to the window as a low grumble rolls from his throat. The Irish Wolfhound isn’t a working dog, but he’s just as loyal, protective and vigilant as the Heelers I use to protect the herd.
“What is it, boy?” I run my fingers over the soft fur on his head, but he remains growling at the window. The motion sensor floodlight illuminates a second later as Koda and Lettie, my two female Heelers, begin to prowl toward the field some of the herd are grazing in.
“For fucks sake,” I growl, snatching up my shotgun before I shove my feet into the leather work boots that have seen better days. Fuck, I’ve seen better days, but that’s this damn life.
We’ve had trouble with coyotes in these parts for a while, had a couple last week kill a youngling from the herd, and take out the chicken coop.
I’m not about to lose more. Judge starts to follow and while I trust the dog with my life, he is not a working dog, and he’ll likely get injured if it came to a head with the coyotes.
“Stay,” I command sternly, forcing him to still. “Good boy.”
It’s cooled a little from the brutal heat of earlier, but it’s humid enough that the air presses to my skin, dampening the back of my neck with sweat. I whistle for the Heelers; the noise carrying through the dark and they pause, their noses pointed to where they heard the noise.
“What is it?” I say aloud. I find myself talking to nothing a lot.
Guess that’s what happens when you live in the middle of nowhere and spend most of your time alone.
Just how I fucking like it. Carter Cattle Ranch has been in my family for generations, though it’s nowhere near where it used to be. The big corps made sure of that.
I only have a few hands working for me now and I know two are meant to be on shift tonight, but where the fuck they are, I don’t know. With the loaded shotgun, I stop between the two dogs, watching the dark for movement. I see nothing.
I whistle again to let the dogs go and follow behind them, watching what they do and how they react.
They head right for the barn, currently storing the straw for the season, pausing by the outside faucet to sniff at the ground.
Pulling the torch from my belt, I click it on and shine it into the puddle where the tap has recently been on, the head of the hose still dripping water and adding to the dirty puddle.
Shining the light left to right, I look for the ranch hands, but the area is empty save for the cattle in the field at my side.
Lettie trots to the barn door, her paw scratching at it.
What the fuck is up with them? There’s nothing out here.
But I know better than to ignore their alerts so I’ll fucking bite.
Heaving the door open, I let it swing until it bangs against the wall, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet of the night.
Like sleeping giants, the Bighorn Mountains stand watch over the ranch, their dark, imposing peaks scraping the cloudless, starry sky above.
With the torch in one hand and the gun in the other, I walk down the center aisle, bales of straw stacked to the ceiling on either side as Lettie prowls ahead of me.
She comes to a dead stop, a low growl working out of her as she stares into a gap between the bales.
“Well, I’ll be fucking damned,” I growl under my breath as my torch touches on a woman currently laying — and bleeding all over my fucking straw.
She is covered in dirt and blood, it’s caked to her skin, grit and mud in clumps but the fresh, bright red streaks that run rivers over the clean parts of her tell me she is still actively bleeding but I cannot see where from.
Her chest is moving, so she’s alive, at least.
She’s in what was a tight dress, I couldn’t guess the color, but it’s ripped and torn in places and she’s barefooted, her dark hair wet. The hose.
What the fuck is she doing on my property?
“Ma’am,” I touch her foot with the tip of my boot, but she doesn’t stir. At my side, Lettie creeps close, sniffing the air, and then she lets out a keening whine, the noise bouncing back to me.
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. Placing the shotgun down, I step closer, lowering to a crouch and run my torch over her, trying to locate the bleeding.
Her feet are a mess, that much is clear, and it looks like there’s a graze of some kind on her upper arm, but it’s barely dribbling blood.
She remains still, her eyes closed, and lips parted.
She’s pale though, her skin that sickly shade.
There’s a darker patch of fabric at her thigh and when I touch it, my fingertips come away red.
“There it is.” I lift the hem to find a makeshift bandage made from the material of her dress, but it’s doing nothing to stop the bleeding.
The wisest idea here would be to call the cops, but the last thing I fucking need is the police sniffing around this place.
I ain’t risking no fucking cops on my property for a woman I don’t know.
People go missing all the time. These mountains are dangerous.
Unwrapping the bandage, I get a look at what’s causing the heavy bleeding, and can spot a bullet hole a mile away.
“Fuck's sake,” I grumble to myself, Lettie sitting behind me, watching intently. Trouble. This only brings fucking trouble.
I’d leave her to bleed out if I couldn’t hear my own father turning in his grave at the mere idea. A Carter never turns a person in need away, especially a woman.
If the bullet is still in there, she’s going to bleed out anyway. But I can’t do shit out here in the dark. Flicking the torch off, I let my eyes adjust enough I can make out her shape against the straw and move to pick her up, sliding my arms beneath her body.
“Get your fucking hands off me,” The cool touch of metal presses against my temple. Her voice is breathless, a little shaky, but determined.
“You come onto my property,” I growl. “Bleed out on my straw, and you’re the one pressing a gun to my head?” I’d laugh if I wasn’t so pissed off.
The metal presses harder.
“If you’re gonna shoot me, darlin’, get it over with,” I challenge her.
“What are you trying to do?” She asks instead.
“Move you so I can see your leg.”
“I was shot.”
“Can see that,” I grunt. “Is the bullet still in there?”
We’re at an impasse. She still has the gun to my head, but the pressure has eased. Her body is trembling despite the heat making sweat roll down my back. She’s a few hours from death, if that.
“I don’t know.” She answers eventually.
“If you don’t want to die, I need to move you.”
“Fine, but the gun stays.”
I chuckle humorlessly and continue sliding my arms beneath her. She lets out a strangled noise when I lift, a gasp of pain, but her gun stays true and it’s where it remains as I walk out the barn with her in my arms, my dogs following close to my heels.
“Where am I?” She asks weakly.
“Carter Cattle Ranch,” I answer on instinct, remembering the days when I was younger and did tours for the folks travelling through. We had a whole tourist set up, horses to learn to ride on, cabins in the woods for those wanting to experience ranch life. That all went away, along with the money.
“I recognize that name,” She breathes.
I don’t answer her, and we remain silent as I walk the rest of the way to the house, the lights shining out the window. I see Judge up at the window, watching us.
“Go on home,” I call to Koda and Lettie, releasing them from the work. They ignore me, choosing to follow me onto the porch where they promptly lay down, knowing they’re not to come into the house.
I use the toe of my boot to pull open the screen and then bend slightly to turn the handle on the door, but the move jostles her.
“Fuck!” She snaps, “Would you watch it!”
“Listen, if you want hospital treatment, I’ll drop you in town, but I’m guessing you hiding in my barn means you don’t want to be in public right now. So I’m your best bet, but you keep pushing me with that smart fucking mouth, I’ll leave you out here for the coyotes. You hearing me?”
“And here I thought you cowboys were friendly,” She sneers right back.
“A common misconception,” I step into the house and Judge beelines for us, smelling the dirt and the blood on her.
I take her through to the kitchen and lay her down onto the old wooden table, the top of it scarred and worn from the years of use, what’s a little blood to add to the character? The gun stays on me, though no longer pointed at my head.
“I’m going to take a look,” I tell her, filling a jug with water.
She stays quiet but watches me with eyes the color of storm clouds. In the light, I can see her beauty, her raven black hair and plump red lips. She’s young, far younger than me, at least.
Her skin is damp with sweat, yet she still shivers.
“This’ll hurt,” I warn her as I pour the water on to clear the area of blood and dirt and then use my fingers to push open the wound, looking for a glint of metal.
She screams, the sound rushing through my veins like ice.
It’s the kind of scream that resonates in your bones, churns your gut. But I see what I need to see.
“It’s in there.” I let her go and she drops onto the table, her chest moving rapidly, the gun in her hand dangling off the edge of the table. “I need to get it out. After that…”
“After that?” She presses.
“We’ll cauterize it.”
“Wonderful,” She sighs, lifting the gun to rest on her stomach. I reach under the sink for the medical supplies before I head through to the lounge for the bottle of whiskey I was about to pour from before all this shit went down.
Can’t catch a damn break.
I hand it to her. “Drink.” She rises onto her elbows and shifts her weight to balance on one of them, snatching the bottle from my hand, her icy eyes glaring. She swigs and then she swigs some more, taking several large gulps before she comes up for air and then slumps back onto her spine.
I’ll give it to her, she looks like a city girl, a little sweet but from what I’ve seen, she’ll give even the toughest of cowboys a run for their money.
“Let’s go,” She swirls her finger in the air, her words slurring with the whiskey working quick.
Now or never, I suppose. I pour some of the whiskey onto her thigh, making her hiss, but don’t give her a reprieve as I push the forceps into the wound to open it and then use the larger clamps to get a grip on the bullet.
Things I didn’t expect to be doing on a Monday evening; surgery on my kitchen table.
I pull the bullet out of her to the sound of her flesh moving and her gasps of pain, letting it drop onto the kitchen floor. I’m quick to get pressure on it, but we need to get it closed quickly.
Her head rolls to the side as the pain and the alcohol do a number on her.
“Don’t die on me, darlin’. You’ll only get an unmarked grave out here and that just doesn’t seem fitting for you.”
I start from the room to get the steel branding iron used for branding cattle, though it’s not been used since we switched to the freeze method of marking livestock. She’ll have to live with the large C mark on her thigh, but that’s better than being dead.
With it in hand, I get the propane torch and head back to the house, finding her exactly where I left her, except Judge is licking her hand. She’s awake, but barely.
There’s not much I can do for the pain, and I keep my eye on her as I heat the branding iron until it glows. I test it against the table to ensure it’s hot enough and when that leaves a smoking scorch mark; I know it is.
I only hesitate for a second before I place the steel to her thigh and the smell of her burning flesh fills the kitchen.
She doesn’t even get out a scream before she passes out.